Author: AntipodeanOpaleye
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The enchanted world of Narnia and all the creatures in it belong to C.S. Lewis; I own nothing of it.
Summary: Edmund watches over Peter as he fights for Narnia, and realizes that there are some battles that are not meant to be fought alone. Movieverse.
A/N: This is just a short glimpse into what I think might have been going through Edmund's mind during the Battle of Beruna against the White Witch. It is most accurately placed in the universe of the film, but I think it also could work in the world of the novel with little difficulty. This is my first Narnia fic, so I'd greatly appreciate any and all reviews or constructive criticism. Thanks :D
I'm watching you.
You looked my way once, before the battle began – I nodded my encouragement wholeheartedly, though I doubt it meant much. You never needed it in the first place, really.
But I needed to give it.
I needed you to know that I believed in you, always. And that no matter what, I'd never stopped. Believing in you, that is.
I give the commands I'm required to, as per your instructions, and I shout the orders you asked of me without question, though I feel odd in doing so. I'm no leader, Peter. That was always your station.
Through it all, my eyes never leave you. I see you ride about as the battle is waged around you, handling your sword with an inexperienced sort of proficiency – an ease not quite graceful, but more instinctual, as if you were meant to wield that blade. Truly, I think you were.
I watch you engage fearsome creatures, my hands trembling violently as I grip the hilt of my weapon tighter in an attempt to chase the tremors away. I fear for you as you face those demons, and each time you walk away from one alive, only to move onto the next, I breathe a sigh of relief between your skirmishes, for though they may mean little to the war in the end, they mean everything to me.
I wonder if you knew at all, when we walked through the wardrobe, that this would be the outcome. That you would fight in a war for a world you were destined to rule over. That you would save lives and give hope to countless beings in a magical world that before existed only in dreams. I think perhaps you did, in some sense – you've always been meant for great things.
I used to be jealous of you – at home, at school, it was always "Peter this," and "Peter that." Edmund was never of any consequence, and my accomplishments were never important. When I read a book, you had already written an award-winning reaction to it. When I overcame my fear of drowning, you had already mastered the backstroke with perfect form. When I did an extra chore or two, you had somehow managed to clean the entire house and make it sparkle. Mother was always more pleased with you, because you were the older and more mature of her two sons. I was the child, the baby; the one she felt the obligation to coddle because she knew I wasn't as strong as you were. It was attention, it was acknowledgement, but I resented it, because it wasn't pride. It was pity.
And I resented you, because you loved Susan and Lucy, and cared for them, while all I ever got was a cold glare of reproach or an angry rebuke for being silly or cruel in some way or form. I acted out, hoping that one day you'd see me, recognize me as your brother, be proud of me, and love me. That's all I ever wanted, Peter. I wanted you to be proud of me, and more than anything, I just wanted you to love me.
You tell me to leave. Don't you understand, Peter? I can't leave. I can't leave this battle. I can't leave these people, these creatures, this world – I can't leave them to suffer. But most of all, I simply can't leave you. I may not be the best protector, or even a very good one at all, but I won't leave you alone. Never.
I turn back, and I see your figure – your back is turned. Your sword gleams in the sunlight, and I smile slightly at the magnificent spectacle you make in your armor. You'll make an extraordinary King, Peter. That much is certain.
Then everything pauses, and the world stops turning for one agonizing instant.
She's coming for you. Her eyes are darkening with that same vicious gleam I witnessed in the woods, when the poor fox was frozen in his fur, for no good reason at all. She means to take revenge upon you for a sin you did not commit. She means to harm you for no true purpose, only because its serves the selfish desires of her blackened soul. When I think back only days, I feel cold as I remember her bitter cruelty. Thoughts of shackled Fauns, stone creatures, and Turkish Delight mingle with the ice of her frigid throne to become my all-encompassing shame.
My heart pounds painfully in my chest as I race downwards in defiance, fearing what will come if I am too late. I can't be too late. Not this time.
It happens in the blink of an eye – I don't think, I only do. And as I come down upon the staff of evil that is the White Witch's destructive wand, as it cracks and shatters with a blinding finality, I know somehow that my duty has been fulfilled. I've served my purpose, and now my part is done.
I am surprised, but not shocked, as the evil sorceress's blade is thrust into my flesh without mercy. She extracts it after a moment, watching the sheer torment flood my features as the physical pain registers and I fall to the ground, writhing miserably. She grins hatefully, turns on her heel, and continues towards her ultimate goal.
No…
I think it, frantically, but I hear it as well. I look up and see, just beyond the Witch's shoulder, your face, contorted with fury and devastation.
I look back at you, my eyes desperate, praying for you to comprehend what I can't say, but always wanted to. I hope you can see, now; hope that you can understand what I try to tell you across the distance that separates us.
I love you, Peter.
Pain shoots through me once again, and I try not to cry out. That will do no good now.
It hurts, Peter. By the stars, it hurts.
My vision begins to grow hazy – gold and green swirl beyond a foreground of interchangeable silver and crimson, an image of the metal and blood I can now taste vividly in my mouth.
It's cold, Peter. So very cold.
The harsh din about me begins to fade away, and I can't hear the words that fall from your parted lips. You look distraught – angry, maybe. I can only hope that it's concern, and perhaps something more, that I read in your expression instead.
Yet she is coming for you still. I've failed. I always fail. I couldn't save you Peter. I couldn't, because I'm not you. I'll never be you. I'll never be anything at all.
So much for love.
My body feels strange, as if it's already dead and my mind is just being stubborn and refusing to catch up to it. I'm scared, but not for myself.
I fear for you. Please see her. Please don't let her kill you. Please win. Please lead these people. Please live. Please don't hate me. Please love me. Please…
Peter, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.